Free The Center of the World by Thomas van Essen Page A

been puzzling over ever since.”
    Turner held out his glass and watched as Egremont filled it. “Indeed?”
    “Yes. You said that there was more truth between a woman’s legs than between Homer’s ears. You went on to say that the truth is what matters and that I would understand. I think, Turner, I do understand—but how did you know that?”
    Turner’s manner changed abruptly. He seemed to look inward and spoke to himself, as if neither Lord Egremont nor I was in the room. “Passion, sir. Sensual delight.” He took another sip of port and savored it thoughtfully. “I have devoted my life to my art. Other men may have had greater genius than I. But no man has worked harder. The hours in the studio. The days and weeks upon the road. Sleeping in the most god-awful places, sir. Risking life and limb in the Alps. Getting poisonedby innkeepers. Nearly having my throat cut by Italian thieves. Having myself tied to the mast so that I might see the play of the gale upon the waves. All for my art, sir. I never took a wife. The obligations of home and family would have prevented me from devoting the full measure.
    “But there have been times when the urgency of my sensual feelings has been such that I have risked much—money, health, position—in order to satisfy them. And when I think back on my career thus far—all the honors I have received, my early membership in the Academy, your patronage and hospitality, my lord, the esteem of my fellow artists—I doubt that much of it is as memorable to me as a night I spent in a country inn—Lord, it must have been twenty years ago—with one of the maidservants.”
    Turner paused and a faint smile flickered over his face. Egremont smiled as well. The two of them seemed to have forgotten that I was there.
    “Lord, yes. Before you were born, Turner, there was a lass that was the daughter of one of my tenants. She was a fine-looking girl. Clever as a whip. Lively. I had her in the house as a kitchen maid. I taught her some tricks I learned from the London whores. She was an apt pupil and took to them with a right good will. The hours I spent with her will live in my mind until I die.”
    “So what became of her?” Turner asked.
    “I married her off to another of my tenants. When the young man weighed her lack of virtue against the size of the dowry I provided, he took her. When on their wedding nighthe found what she could do, he saw he had made a most excellent bargain. She died about eight months after the wedding, bless her soul. The brat died too, but I don’t think it was mine.
    “I am eighty years old. My teeth are better than yours, Turner. I can still walk, ride, shoot. My hearing is not what it once was, but if I sit close to the harpsichord I can hear Mrs. Spencer sing well enough. She is not such a wonderful singer, but the heaving of her bosom still affords me pleasure. The will is still there, Turner, after all these years, the will is still there. But the ability to perform is quite extinguished. I have consulted with my physician about the matter. The young puppy appeared quite surprised it was still a matter of concern to me. He is good enough in his line, I suppose, but he seemed to think that a man of four score ought to put aside that sort of thing and be grateful that he is still breathing. I wonder if he will be humming that tune when he is my age.”
    “I confess, my lord, that what you describe has always been my greatest fear. But I imagined the desire would simply fade away like the light at close of day.”
    “No. That’s the damn pity. There are times when I look at Mrs. Spencer, when she is reading to me or when she is gracing some buffoon with that lustrous smile of hers, and I feel the heat of it quite as if I was a young buck. But then, when we are upstairs, nothing comes of it, although the burning remains. It’s damn peculiar.”
    Egremont suddenly looked at me, as if he had just recollected that I was in the room. “A young fellow like